Author Note:

Quite a few reactions about #KillingSherlockHolmes! Mostly against. I hope I don't disappoint you with how this pans out. Still a couple of twists to come!

Incidentally, with the tune Sherlock is humming towards the end of this chapter, think in terms of a double bass or cello playing it at a slower tempo, rather than how you hear it on his violin in the show.

Another long chapter. Hope you don't mind.


Chapter 119 – I Needed to Move the Target

Rose's jaw dropped and blood leeched from her face.

"It's Sherlock Holmes who attracts danger," Sherlock continued when Rose was unable to speak. "Sherlock Holmes who has enemies at every turn; Sherlock Holmes who incites media interest. This makes sense, Rose. With Sherlock Holmes out of the picture, there will be no interest in you, from either criminals or media outlets. Nobody can follow Sherlock Holmes here, because there won't be anyone to follow."

Her throat tight and dry, Rose had to force out the words.

"And where will you be?"

Thoughts of Sherlock hiding out abroad once again, for an indeterminate period, unreachable and... alone... flitted through her mind.

"Here," he replied. "Scott Williams will reside here. Permanently."

Rose blinked uncomprehendingly. This wasn't... Sherlock...

This was... this was... stupid.

Utterly... utterly... stupid.

"No," she said. "You're Sherlock Holmes. I love Sherlock, not Scott Williams. Scott Williams belongs to… to… to no one."

"Rose, it won't make any difference up here. I'll still be me."

"And what about London? And your work?"

"I'll... find... something."

Was he joking?

"Like what?" she asked, blood pressure rising. "Bookkeeping? Bar work?"

"Rose."

"Have you even thought this through?"

"I'll talk to Mycroft. He's organised one of these things before."

"One of these things!" Rose repeated through gritted teeth. She rose from her seat, a delicate flush crossing her cheeks. "Hold Grace!"

"Sorry?"

"Hold – your – daughter. I need to yell at you. From over there."

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to protest, but took his daughter from Rose anyway.

Rose strode to the other side of the room and stopped in front of the doorway to the kitchen, fists clenched, every muscle coiled in readiness. Sherlock had risen from his perch on the coffee table, cradling Grace in his arms, his eyes a tad wider, as if slightly amused.

"It's not your 21st, Sherlock!" Rose yelled, gesturing widely. "I don't care how many of these things Mycroft's organised before! It's your fake death! Again! You're not planning this between you and Mycroft. You're discussing this with me and I don't agree!"

Grace had hiccupped her protests in Sherlock's arms, prompting Rose's eyes to water as well. She'd made her daughter cry.

"Mycroft might think of other options to keep me occupied," Sherlock said calmly, while he smoothed a hand over Grace's back.

"Stop it," she said, her face dissolving. He was speaking nonsense. All of it. Nonsense.

"I could work for MI5 from here."

Rose left the doorway, crossing the room back to Sherlock and Grace, drawn to her daughter who continued to protest. She didn't want to hear any more of this rubbish and she wanted to soothe her infant.

"I said, stop it."

Tears fell freely now, which she angrily brushed away.

"If you think about it," he continued in an annoyingly even voice, as he gently swayed where he stood, his daughter secure in his arms, "you'll realise this is the only option we have left."

Rose's insides churned. She was responsible for this. She had made him worried about her receiving training from Mycroft's people. He thought the danger posed by the life he lived was first and foremost on her mind.

"No," she said, her eyes imploring his.

"I'll be going back to London and then onto Sherrinford at the end of the week," Sherlock said, continuing to smooth a hand over his daughter's back. "Mycroft wants to try getting through to Eurus again."

Hackles raised once more, Rose used all her will power not to yell at him again.

"I don't care about your f—kin sister!"

Grace squawked again and Sherlock turned and moved away from Rose, patting his daughter all the while.

"She's been... unresponsive," he said, as if Rose hadn't sworn at him. "More so than in the past, Mycroft said." But Rose didn't care to hear about Eurus. Lisa. Her skin still prickled. "I'll talk to him about my plan for us," Sherlock continued. "And see if he can come up with any options for keeping me occupied as well. But no decision will be made until I talk to you about it again." He turned back to face her. "I won't do anything you don't endorse one hundred percent. Okay?"

Rose about-faced and stormed out of the room, Grace's cries still piercing the air.

She pulled up in front of the dining room window, her chest heaving, and watched the rain pelt down on the uneven surfaces in the back garden. She clenched her fists as Grace's cries rose and fell in the adjoining room.

Stupid man.

Stupid stupid man.

He thought this solution would remove her concerns about being attacked some day? About being exposed? Removing Sherlock Holmes from existence. That was his brilliant plan?

Grace's steady cries echoed throughout the entranceway as Sherlock paced through there. His patient shushes felt as if they were supposed to soothe Rose as well.

Genius, my arse!

Rose folded her arms in front of her, not really seeing the damp grey world beyond the window pane. Grace's cries lessened, turning into an intermittent sob, partially muffled against Sherlock's chest and the rhythm of his patting.

"Whatever we decide," Sherlock said through the doorway to the kitchen, "nothing will be put in motion for quite a while. In the meantime, you still need a nanny. I'll see if Mycroft can arrange a meeting when I go back to London as well."

With those parting words, he left.

Rose whirled around. Where was he going? To put Grace in her cot? But she was supposed to have awake time!

She strode towards the entranceway and heard Sherlock's footfalls halfway up the stairs.

Fine.

Whatever.


Rose tossed the last item, a black cotton t-shirt of Sherlock's, into the dryer, turned the dial to sixty and pressed start. She grabbed the basket of clothes she'd removed from the dryer beforehand and placed it onto the dining table. Various light-coloured items of hers, Sherlock's and Grace's half-filled the basket. She drew out the first item, Sherlock's chambray shirt, and scowled.

A Scott Williams number.

Why does he get to live? Why does anyone have to die?

Annoyed, she tossed the shirt back into the basket and reached for a sleepsuit of Grace's. She proceeded to fold the garment within an inch of its life before starting on the next.

Rose had folded most of the items in the basket by the time Sherlock returned to the kitchen without Grace.

"She's not supposed to go to sleep right now," Rose said, having glanced at Sherlock before turning back to the washing. She could iron Scott's button up shirts… get the ironing board out… But… she'd probably scorch them. All of them. Accidentally.

"She's not asleep," Sherlock replied. "She's watching that execution mobile thingy."

"The what?"

"The mobile… with the animals... Annoying tune. It was on the floor. So I... re-attached it to the cot."

"I took it off because it got in my way every time I put Grace in there," she said, folding the last item.

"Yes, I could see how that would pose a problem," Sherlock replied, approaching her, "so I attached it to the other end. She can still see it. Well… the fuzzy image of it anyway. Her eyesight's not quite developed at this age."

Fantastic. Glad Sherlock's logical processing abilities could come in so handy. There are all sorts of domestic problems he can put his mind to! Why does he need cases!

A lump rose in her throat.

This isn't the life I wanted for him! her mind screamed, before the full weight of Sherlock's stupid idea descended on her. Her limbs felt heavy, and a pang of impending loss stabbed through her. The pressure built up inside her until Rose dipped her head and shuddered a sob into her hand.

There was a momentary stillness in the air before she felt Sherlock's warm presence. As an arm stole around her, he said, "I can take it off again, if you like."

This just made Rose emit a mutant sob-laugh into her hand.

She loved him, the great lump. He was wonderful and kind and caring, but oh, so STUPID sometimes!

Rose turned in towards Sherlock when he fully embraced her.

"You're not really upset about the farm animal execution mobile, are you?" he asked.

Rose lifted her gaze and blinked her tear-stained eyes up at Sherlock.

She sniffed once, then asked, "Why do you keep calling it an execution mobile?"

"Well, they're hanging, aren't they? All those stripey little animals getting the death penalty. What did they do to deserve that? Or do you think it was a mass suicide? Not enough evidence to suggest one way or the other."

Rose carefully examined Sherlock's eyes. Not a trace of humour in them. Was he serious? She bit back the desire to burst into laughter. Instead, she opened her mouth to say something sensible, but her thoughts drifted back to the infant they were supposed to be supervising.

"Where's the monitor?"

She didn't give Sherlock a chance to reply when she swiftly made for the door adjoining the living area, remembering she'd last seen it on the coffee table.

"I don't understand why you're so upset," Sherlock said, following her into the room. Rose spied the monitor where they'd left it. "This plan means I'll be here, for you and Grace," he continued. "All the time." Rose bent down and switched on the device, which burst into life with the garish tune of the farm animal execution. "And there'll be no risk to you," Sherlock went on. "Isn't that what you've wanted all along?"

Rose straightened up and faced him.

"Not at the cost of losing you," she replied, tamping down her anxiety at last. "You're willing to destroy the whole essence of who you are. How bored are you going to get if you don't have cases to solve? What sort of dull work will Mycroft have you doing from here? Paperwork? That's not you. You have to be out there, chasing criminals, hovering around crime scenes…"

"I don't hover."

"Examining dead bodies."

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a smile.

"They do hold some appeal, admittedly."

"Maybe your plan sounds good on paper," Rose said, reaching for him, "but I don't think it'll work out how you think it will."

"I'm glad you've stopped being angry with me," he remarked, banding his arms around her. "But there's still the finer details to work out, obviously."

Rose's shoulders drooped a little. Perhaps she'd over-reacted a bit initially. And she was supposed to be the professional who knew how to deal with difficult conversation topics! She wasn't going to get around this so easily, but a seed of an idea had spawned in her mind while she was undertaking household chores.

"Perhaps I'm a bit more clear-headed after folding a basketful of laundry," she said, patting his chest and stepping out of his embrace. "And I've thought of something to try first. You like experiments after all."

Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Yes?" he said, raising his eyebrows in expectation.

Rose gestured to the sofa and then sank down onto it herself. Sherlock joined her, their bodies angled toward one another. He slid an arm along the back of the sofa and Rose leant into it. She breathed in his aftershave, which had the immediate effect of calming her further.

"I just want to start by saying I'm not going to change my mind about this," Rose began. "I don't agree with your idea at all."

"You never know," Sherlock replied, shrugging lightly. "You might warm to it."

"Why don't we try this," she continued. "Because I don't think you quite get the point I'm trying to make."

Sherlock tilted his head in readiness.

"You return to London… or go back up to Sherrinford… whichever… and do whatever you need to do. Then, when you get back here…. stay. Stay til Christmas or the New Year. That's a good length of time. You've never been with us for more than a few weeks at a time, anyway. Think of it as a trial. No going back to London. No cases, not even email ones. You can tell your contacts back there, or your clients, that you're working on a case abroad, or you can say you're off finding yourself in the Himalayas... Tweet it. Or say nothing. It doesn't matter."

"Finding myself?" Sherlock echoed, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"In a way, you are. And… maybe you can ask Mycroft for some work. That'll also test whether or not you can keep busy with work given to you by your brother."

There was a momentary silence while Sherlock digested her words.

"If you think that will help," he said.

"Yes," she replied. "I do."

Sherlock's gaze drifted to the coffee table, lost in thought again, Rose assumed.

"Are you in any particular hurry to kill off one of your identities?" she asked.

"Not… really," he conceded, meeting her gaze again with a meek smile.

Rose reached out and cupped Sherlock's face.

"Because I really don't want to lose Sherlock Holmes."

He seemed to study her eyes, and she hoped he'd see the conviction of her words in them.

"You know, you wouldn't have," he said. "It's just a name."

"A name that gives you purpose," she replied, dropping her hand. "You carry yourself differently when you're Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock emitted a throaty chuckle.

"You and John," he said. "Being Sherlock Holmes. What does that even mean? You're seeing what you want to see. Don't forget I did spend two years abroad not as myself. Well… mostly not myself."

"Huh. You see?" she said, before whispering a soft kiss to his lips.

"I still think I'm right," he murmured, his mouth hovering over hers.

"Of course you do," she replied, pressing another kiss to his lips, this time one that lingered.

When they broke apart again, Rose said, "And if you're going to be here until Christmas, then there's no real need to get a nanny straight away, is there?"

Sherlock's mouth drifted to the sensitive spot behind her ear. When he pressed his lips there, desire and arousal drizzled through her.

"No need at all," he agreed in a low rumble.

Rose's eyes widened when she detected a change in the air. She drew back from Sherlock's ministrations and looked towards the coffee table. He followed her gaze.

"The execution's over," he murmured.

The baby monitor's constant static was rather telling. Suddenly the indicators burst into life and Grace's protests broke through.

"A nanny sounds like a good idea after all," Sherlock said, a tiny sparkle in his eyes.

"Definitely," Rose said, with a light laugh.

They both rose from the sofa.

"I'll get her," Sherlock said.

"No, we'll both go," Rose countered as they rounded the furniture. Following Sherlock towards the entranceway, she added, with traces of amusement in her tone, "I think we should get rid of it. The mobile, I mean. It might give her the wrong idea about capital punishment."

Sherlock glanced around at Rose and replied, "Let's not completely rule out the idea of mass suicide."


"If I'm going to be here until Christmas," Sherlock said, running his fingers through Rose's hair as she cuddled into his chest, "then there'll be no need for Mycroft's people to train you."

"Maybe."

His hand stilled and he frowned.

"No 'maybe' about it. No cases for me, so no Pilates for you," he finished with a casual wave of his hand.

"Wait," Rose said. She shifted, propping herself up onto her elbow to address Sherlock. "That wasn't the deal."

"Why can't it be the deal? Everything we both planned to do has to come to a halt for your little experiment. That is, your spy training and my death."

"It's not spy training."

"Well, whatever it is."

Small creases appeared in Rose's brow which was never a good thing in Sherlock's opinion.

"And how were you planning on dying?" she asked. "Not that I'm going to let you, let's just be clear about that."

"Drug overdose."

"Oh," she said mournfully. "That's awful."

"I know," Sherlock replied, with a smile. "I held out for as long as I could. My abstinence between the Charles Magnussen and Culverton Smith cases was quite a good one. Eight months in all…"

"Mm," Rose said, her frown telling him she was clearly unimpressed. "Almost long enough to grow a baby."

"But sadly," Sherlock continued, trying to avoid all talk of a drug addict who missed the birth of their child, "I couldn't hold out any longer. And a lower tolerance meant I couldn't handle the higher doses I had previously been administering. It wouldn't be a surprise to anyone that Sherlock Holmes, drug addict, took himself out that way."

"But that's not the ending you deserve," Rose lamented.

"It's one people wouldn't look at too closely."

With a sigh, Rose curled herself into Sherlock's side once more.

Bit of a downer, Sherlock thought, as far as conversation topics went, and now they were even further away from the quickie he had wanted only minutes ago in the kitchen. Rose had objected, saying she was so far from being aroused, that there was no way they could have sex in the time they had left before Sherlock's cab arrived to take him to the station.

"I'll need so much foreplay," she had said, ending her statement with a wide yawn.

Sherlock had suggested they snuggle in bed to see where that would take them, but they ended up talking, and now here they were, a flagging erection his final contribution and Rose's body growing heavy with sleep.

It wasn't as if he didn't get enough over the last couple of days. All his talk about killing Sherlock Holmes seemed to have awoken a desperate desire in Rose. Sherlock did his best to keep her satiated, and she enthusiastically returned the favour in equal measure. All that creativity and not a pack of Cluedo cards in sight!

But he was leaving for a couple of days now. This was their last opportunity while Grace was asleep in the nursery. If only they could stop talking about serious subjects.

Sherlock smoothed a hand along Rose's arm. Time to step up the skin to skin contact, he thought.

"When do you have to go?" Rose asked.

"Cab will be here at two."

Rose's eyes flickered to the digital clock on the bedside table. A smile grew on her face.

"Then we have seventeen minutes," she said. "It's a good thing we only need fifteen."


"Oh, do you want to go to Grandma's house for Christmas?" Rose asked Grace as the infant flailed an arm towards the fabric sun, moon and star that were dangling above her.

Rose quickly typed out a reply to Mrs Holmes's invitation to spend Christmas with them.

"I have to plan these things early," the Holmes matriarch had texted. "It stops Myke organising his silly meetings around family gatherings so he has an excuse not to come. And two years ago, Sherlock took off to the Himalayas!"

Christmas was still a while away, but Rose couldn't think of a better way to spend it. She and Sherlock had spent the first Christmas of their relationship in separate countries—continents, even, and their last Christmas had been… well… Christmas Eve held its own significance, but as for the rest... Rose shivered as the unpleasant memories rippled through her.

"And now we've got you," Rose said to Grace. "What do you think? Your first Christmas surrounded by your family?"

A blanket of warmth stole over Rose. Grace's family. Her extended family. One who didn't shun her for merely existing.

She pressed send on the message, "We'd love to!" then looked up, tilting her head when she thought she heard the low rumble of a motorbike.

Her heart quickened when the noise grew louder then stopped.

"Daddy's home!" she exclaimed to Grace, leaving the contented infant on her play rug as she made for the entranceway.

Rose stopped before the door, hearing keys jangle in the lock.

When Sherlock stepped through the doorway, Rose practically threw herself at him.

"Uh… Rose… what's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said, her voice muffled against his neck. "I missed you."

"Oh. Okay," he said, patting her back with his free hand. "Can I just… lock the door again?"

Easing back, Rose murmured a sorry, and felt her cheeks flush. Sherlock slipped his key into the lock, the deadbolts clanking into place. He'd only been gone three days, Rose conceded, but this time he'd not phoned or texted her at all, so it felt like so much longer.

"Where is she?" Sherlock asked, looking towards the stairwell.

"Don't I get a proper hello?" Rose asked.

Sherlock gave her a sheepish smile that faded in an instant. Since he held his motorbike helmet in one hand, he could only slip his free arm around her. Ducking his head, he said, "Hello, Rose." He pressed a firm but brief kiss against her lips and pulled back just as quickly.

"Where is she?"

"In… in the living room," Rose said, deflating a little at his fleeting attention. Sherlock's eyes, she noted, lacked his usual sparkle. "Watching another execution," she added, hoping to lighten the mood.

Sherlock crossed the entranceway for the door to the living room.

Why was he so flat? Rose thought, following him into the room. Was it because he had to stay in Edinburgh now? But this was his idea! Well, a trial run of the spirit of his idea, without the fake Sherlock Holmes corpse.

"Hello! It's Daddy!"

Rose's heart lifted at the brightness in his voice. At least his daughter still had the ability to elevate his spirits.

Sherlock immediately took to the rug, propped up on an elbow, facing Grace.

"You've grown since I've last seen you. You'll be towering over your Uncle John any day now!"

He chuckled and pressed a kiss to his daughter's cheek.

"Cup of tea?" Rose asked.

"I'll just get changed first," Sherlock said, remaining where he was. "And freshen up."

Rose knew Grace would be content for a few more minutes before she would grow bored and want to be lifted up again, if Sherlock left her to get changed out of his biker gear. She had almost finished making the tea when her daughter's first protests drifted into the kitchen, curiously from the entranceway and not the living room.

"I don't like it either," she heard Sherlock saying as she poured milk into their tea. "And there will rarely be a moment in your adult life when you'll need to recall such trivia."

As both father and daughter appeared in the kitchen, with Sherlock now changed into his Scott Williams casual attire, Rose concluded he'd taken his daughter with him when he went upstairs.

"What were you talking about?" she asked.

"The Solar System."

"What abou—"

"By the way, Rose, I should tell you that the Australian au pair will be here at three o'clock."

"What?" Rose glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a little after two. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"I'm telling you now. I've only been home five minutes."

"No, I mean before you left London. God, Sherlock."

Rose quickly returned the milk to the fridge.

"How much notice do you need?"

Dashing past Sherlock, she replied, "More than this."

"Why?"

"Be… cause!" she called back, swiftly exiting the kitchen.

Sherlock didn't appear to be interested enough in her reasons to follow her upstairs. Why would he even think to give her plenty of notice? He probably had no idea that a home required regular cleaning, purging and maintenance to keep it in a condition above liveable. And the nursery was in the middle of an overhaul! Fancy springing a new nanny on her with her infant's room in disarray! Former secret agent or not. What would their potential employee think of them!

Rose had been sorting Grace's clothes by size because she was sick of pulling out unfamiliar garments (purchased by Justine, no doubt) and finding they wouldn't fit for quite some time. In addition, a rather large package had arrived from Mrs Holmes, the wonderful contents of which lay sprawled out over the spare bed.

It took Rose a bit of time to clear everything away. She also gave the bathroom a light going over, leaving the downstairs area til last.

When she entered the living room, she found Sherlock gently swaying with Grace over his shoulder. He was humming a tune Rose didn't recognise. Since his back was to her, she stayed where she was, anchored to the spot in awe.

His rich, deep baritone was surprisingly expressive, yet mournful, as if each melodic fragment that emerged conveyed the full weight of his emotions. There was definitely an underlying sorrow to the tune. Rose held her breath just to hear the darkest notes that verged on silence.

Still swaying, Sherlock turned his head a little to the side.

"Is she due for sleep?" he asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

Rose was jolted out of her hypnotic state, for a split second thinking he wasn't addressing her. She attempted to answer in the affirmative, but nothing escaped her mouth. She cleared her throat and finally replied, "Yes."

He slowly turned then walked towards her. Grace was snuggled against his chest. She looked completely content.

"That was beautiful," Rose whispered, her eyes glistening. Sherlock gave her a tiny smile and stopped in front of her, pivotting to show their daughter's current state. "I think she loved it," Rose remarked, smoothing a hand over Grace's back.

"Mm."

"What's it called?"

"Dunno." He shrugged, then added, "I'm thinking of calling it 'Who You Really Are."

Rose's jaw slackened.

"Y-you wrote that?" she asked, her brows raised in alarm. "But it's so sad."

"It's not about you, don't worry. I was thinking about… my sister."

Rose's exhale took the form of an 'oh'.

"How was she," she asked, "when you visited her?"

Sherlock wordlessly shook his head and gave Rose a grim smile.

"She didn't acknowledge my presence at all. I tried engaging her in conversation. I even spoke about you and… Grace. She kept her back to me the entire time."

"I'm sorry I didn't ask you about her," Rose said. "I should've realised the minute you came through the door. You seemed out of sorts."

"No," Sherlock replied. "I'm not… No. It's not about Eurus."

Rose's eyes widened.

"Oh… Sherlock," she said, visibly deflating. "Are you really worried about staying here til Christmas? Because—"

"No, Rose. It's not our situation here, or you, or anything you've done. I'll tell you later… or... you'll work it out for yourself later. Everything's… fine. You, Grace and I…. were perfectly… fine."

The smile that didn't quite reach his eyes did nothing to reassure Rose. And what was she supposed to work out for herself later? Why did Sherlock always give her these puzzles to solve that caused knots to form in her stomach? And 'fine'? Why were they only 'fine'?

"And I don't mean 'fine' in the way you mean 'fine'," Sherlock hastily added, the beginnings of a smile on his lips. Of course he knew what she was thinking.

When the intercom for the front gate buzzed, Rose's heart jolted.

"Our visitor," Sherlock said. "Why don't you greet her, and I'll take Grace upstairs?"

"So the nanny's a 'her' is she? I was secretly hoping for a guy."

Sherlock huffed a small humourless laugh and turned for the entranceway.

Over by the door, Rose softly called up to Sherlock just before he rounded the bend in the staircase.

"Does that mean she's been vetted by you and Mycroft?"

He gave a quick nod and continued upstairs, his grim expression returning.

Great, thought Rose, before pressing the button on the intercom panel by the door to activate the camera by the gate. Now it was up to Rose to interrogate the nanny. How was she supposed to do that? And what did Sherlock's last expression signify? Wasn't he happy with Mycroft's choice?

"Hello?" she said into the intercom.

"Hi," came a female voice, her face filling the screen. The woman was bit older than Rose expected—not the young sun-bleached, lightly freckled Australian au pair one would normally anticipate. "I'm here for the nanny's position," she went on. Her expression was warm and friendly, despite the glare on her glasses, and she ended her statement with a broad smile.

"Come in," Rose said, pressing the button to release the gate lock.

Yes, by all appearances you don't look like a crazed sniper, she thought. Librarian, perhaps.

If this were a normal interview, Rose wouldn't feel so uncomfortable. But this candidate was a former secret agent… or assassin… or something. Not an actual nanny. What were they going to talk about? Would it all be lies?

Rose opened the front door, planted what she hoped was a relaxed and pleasant smile on her face and watched as the nanny/assassin made her way towards the house.

She reminded Rose of Justine—her build and the way the woman carried herself—fit and energetic. That was reassuring, somehow. But her copper-coloured wavy hair was shoulder-length, not the practical bob Justine sported.

"Bloody freezing," the woman commented with a smile. She rubbed her hands together and said, "And I don't have any gloves. Not used to this! Sorry! Hi! I'm Tracey Moore."

She held out a hand, which Rose took in her own.

"I'm Rose." Gesturing, Rose added, "Please come in. We'll warm you up with a cup of tea at least."

Tracey wiped her feet on the welcome mat and entered the house, looking up at the ceiling as most people did.

"Wow," she said. "It looks deceiving from the outside."

"Yes," Rose said. "Sometimes I think it's much too big for us."

"How long have you lived here?"

As they moved into the kitchen, the conversation flowed along trivial lines. It was the type of small talk Rose would've expected under normal circumstances. But as Tracey mentioned aspects of living in Australia—specifically on a cattle station in the rural area of New South Wales—Rose kept hearing an inner voice that told her the woman was lying.

Far too much detail, the voice would say. Sherlock's voice, naturally.

When the real Sherlock entered the kitchen, they were talking about the garden outside, and Bob's plans for the space.

"Oh, Mr Holmes," Tracey said, rising out of her seat.

"Nope. We're not doing that," Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand at her. It was almost as if he couldn't be arsed making an effort with conversation, Rose thought. But then again, perhaps it was because he knew the real woman behind the façade, so why play games?

Rose stood up as well.

"We're just having tea," she said, unnecessarily of course, for they had cups in front of them, but she felt the need to keep the atmosphere light and pleasant. "Would you like one?"

"I'll get it myself," Sherlock said, already at the kettle. Without looking at the pair, he added, "Don't let me interrupt your… conversation."

Again, that rudeness. Rose felt her cheeks redden. Was this it, then? The cause of his underlying dismal mood since returning to Edinburgh?

Turning to Rose and taking her seat once more, Tracey asked, "So you were talking about a shade house?"

Rose glanced at Tracey, poised to resume sitting as well, when she heard a tut from Sherlock. His head was bowed, and he was rubbing his brow, something he did when something really bothered him.

Rose felt a light buzzing in her head and her skin prickled.

"I'm sorry," she said to Tracey. "I can't… I can't continue this." On the periphery, she noted Sherlock turning around. Tracey's eyes widened a little. "If this is… fake… then I don't see the point in you being here. I won't have a nanny here, telling me made up stories. I know you have a cover, but at least Justine told me about real experiences and she was genuinely interested in what I had to say. I've got no idea who you really are or how much of your story is even true."

Sherlock had folded his arms in front of him and was leaning against the counter. Tracey rose from her seat.

"What do you think, Sherlock?" she asked.

Rose gasped. Tracey's accent was no longer Australian. There was no drawl. It was… English… and the way she spoke Sherlock's name sounded oddly familiar. And directed at him… overly familiar.

"You know my thoughts on this already," Sherlock said, his expression bland. "Just get on with it. Mycroft clearly won the bet, and you've made your point. I won't have you deceiving Rose for a minute longer."

Tracey regarded Rose, her eyes shining.

"I'm sorry, Rose," she said affectionately. She removed her glasses, her expression softening. As she tilted her head and revealed a tiny smile, Rose immediately blanched.

"Just so you know," the woman formerly known as Tracey said, "Sherlock only found out about this yesterday."

Rose took a step backwards from the table, her movements stiff and unnatural.

"Mycroft helped her organise it," Sherlock added. "Without my knowledge."

"How…. how are you even… how could you," Rose said, her voice rasping lightly. She raked her eyes down the former assassin. It was so obvious now. But Rose's stomach churned. "This… this is… cruel!"

The air around her stilled. The buzzing in her head grew louder.

"Rose, please understand, there is nothing I wouldn't do to keep my—"

"But it's cruel!" Rose yelled over her. "How can you do this to him… again, after Sherlock…" Rose gestured towards Sherlock, but her words died on a choke. She drew in a steadying breath and said, "He'll never forgive you!"

"He won't ever find out about me. I'll let them live their lives without me, and I'll live mine. I can't ever return to my former life. It's safer for them this way."

Rose looked to Sherlock for guidance, but he had bowed his head and was a rubbing his nape. Clearly he didn't approve. And now this explained his morose mood upon his return. He had blamed himself for her death! He'd gone to hell and back for this woman!

Rose curled her hand into a fist, her heart pounding.

"Then why are you here?" she said forcefully.

"Because," Mary Watson replied with a half smile, "Mycroft said you needed a temporary nanny."


Author Note:

The hint for this chapter was in the chapter title! So sorry! Yes, I pulled a Moffat! (Not Moftiss, but Moffat specifically). In the words of the 9th Doctor, "Everybody lives!"

One chapter and one epilogue to go! :D

Please, please, please review! It's so disheartening receiving fewer reviews than in the past. Followers are increasing but comments are decreasing? I don't understand! *sobs miserably*